At the junction at the bottom of Castle Hill a cyclist pulled up alongside me, and she smelt so strongly of the Body Shop's "Dewberry" range that I felt like I was a teenager again, worrying that using deodorant would make my parents think I was seeing boys (because why else would you want to smell nice or shave your legs?). I still hate that dewberry scent; it's like boiled sweets without the tastiness, or flowers without the naturalness, or summer holidays without friends. (I thought for ages that it was a made-up fruit, but actually it's not.)
And as I walked along Sidney Street I passed a greasy-haired boy, undergraduate age I suppose (though they look so young and so on and so forth), who was standing by the wall and eating a pasty from a paper bag. Right at the moment when I passed him there was a huge papery pastryish munching sound, and I got a hot blast of the smells of lard-soaked pastry and gristly meat.
I think on balance I preferred the pasty to the dewberry, which probably says something about me.
Not something very interesting, though. But never mind.